


Tristan’s Titillating Tentacle Trouble

by FallowDeer



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cock & Ball Torture, Erotic Electrostimulation, M/M, Other, Tentacle Rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:21:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24909853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallowDeer/pseuds/FallowDeer
Summary: Tristan tries to mount his TV to the wall using magic. It’s a partial success.
Relationships: Accidentally Summoned Tentacles/Young Man, Tentacle Monster/Original Character(s)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 153
Collections: Nonconathon 2020





	Tristan’s Titillating Tentacle Trouble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nununununu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nununununu/gifts).



> Skip Foreplay Button: [XXX]

_‘Thanks for ur purchase!’_ read the letter that had been stapled to his invoice, in barely legible chicken scratch. _‘As noted in listing, display stand not included—suggest professional installation hold fast wall mount. Better for environment!! ;)’_ Under the smiley-face was a carefully printed reminder to leave a positive review.

Being something of a cheap bastard, Tristan had decided to DIY his like-new TV's stand. He awkwardly touched the sloppy array he’d copied off the internet and onto the wall. 

“Te evoco, tentaculum,” he said, haltingly. He was alone, his terrible Latin would have been even more embarrassing in front of an audience. To his pleasant surprise the lines lit up as intended.

Under his fingers, shape and color bloomed.

It rapidly resolved itself into an iridescent mass of small, nubby tentacles. He ran a hand over them quickly to test their viscosity and was rewarded with the strange sensation of building static, the electric potential of an oncoming storm. They wiggled in his wake.

Sure, they were kind of cute, but would nebulous potential be enough to hold up his flat-screen?

He shrugged to himself and collected his TV. It was heavier than he was prepared for. Tristan wasn't a bad looking dude, but he also wasn't the fittest guy at the gym—which he hit about twice a year when his ex was in town, running around shirtless with biceps as big as his head and abs you could clean laundry on.

The long and the short of it was, he toppled over into the tentacles. They immediately latched onto everything in range: mostly Tristan. A hundred fingers tickled along his shoulder and chest. A bigger, more daring one squirmed under the cuff of his shirt and wound up his arm. That one made his nerves scream, hair standing on end. He dropped everything in surprise.

Happily, the hold-fast spell did its job. His new TV hung at a crooked angle from the wall—but it held!

Unhappily, so did Tristan.

The tentacles were strong, flexible, and enthusiastic about their work, but adrenaline gave him a surge of strength and he wrenched himself free. He lost his favorite, much-loved shirt in the process. It split right down the back and hung from the wall next to his TV like a modern art exhibit. Then it was waved in front of him like an offering—or a taunt—and dropped to the floor. 

The tentacles were looking much less cute. Maybe he _should_ spring for professional installation.

Before his eyes, the angle was corrected. A smaller tentacle drew the power cord down to the wall outlet and plugged it in. Another one unhooked the remote from the back and displayed it, like the shirt, but instead of dropping it to the floor it was just held there expectantly.

Tristan took the remote.

A bigger tentacle—actually, they were all a little bigger—slithered along the side of the TV and turned it on.

Well—okay!

He'd sworn to himself that when he finally got a proper television he'd break it in with a good jerk-off session. Maybe not the classiest thing, but he had an oath to his 18-year-old self to live up to. He flipped channels blindly until he found a promising scene. An absolute bear of a man was being gently massaged in the nude by an impressively hung twink. He was alternating between stroking the bear's shoulders and stroking his dick. Tristan settled in on the couch and got out his own dick, trying—and failing—to match the strokes of the stud onscreen.

The back and forth motion of the camera was echoed in the corner of his vision. There was a tentacle hooked over the armrest of his couch, and it kept swiveling its smoothly rounded point between the TV screen and Tristan's dick.

Tristan couldn't help but feel a little self conscious. For one, it was giving off the absolutely overwhelming impression that it was comparing his totally respectably sized cock to the porn-star's unrealistic heft. For another, it was, itself, ever so slightly bigger than his dick.

He'd just decided to ignore it and dedicate his full attention to Mr. Masseuse's professional exploits when the screen cut to a paywall. $19.99? Pay-per-view was such a scam. 

He'd completely lost the mood and got up to turn off the TV in disgust.  
  
Or he tried to, anyway.

It seemed the tentacles had grown a lot more than he’d realized. They stretched across the floor and all over the couch—and over him. One looped around his waist with a squeeze. Another curled over the back of the couch and around his neck. With the touch to his bare skin the tingling sensation returned, but ten times more intense.

Tristan yelped and tried to squirm away, but they’d bulked up in more than just size. He almost choked himself out trying to get up.

Two more looped around his knees with an insurmountable strength. His thighs were yanked apart, splaying him open. He couldn’t get his heels on the ground, and without any leverage his attempts to close his legs were pitiful.

In a panicked surge he clawed and hit the straining tentacles, but they just squeezed in a pulsing rhythm, the weird electric massage playing under his skin and making his muscles jump—until one drew up between his legs and hit him back.

Right on the dick.

Tristan thrashed like a hooked fish as he was paid back every desperate slap.

Every smack sent an electric bolt of sensation through him. He was harder than he’d ever been, the head of his dick was bright red from the abuse and leaking all over his stomach. His pre dripped down over the shimmering tentacle there, giving it more substance the others. His stomach kept jumping, totally involuntary muscle spasms he couldn’t do anything about.

The punishing tentacle hit him again, from dick to balls. Tristan came, explosively.

At once, all the curious tentacles drew back, as if in surprise. Perhaps they were admiring what a mess they’d made of him. Only the ones keeping him in place remained. 

“That wasn’t so bad,” he said, foolishly.

Before he had the chance to finish the last syllable, he was enveloped. His optimism got him a tentacle shoved right into his mouth. It was huge and it buzzed like the rest of them, stretching his lips in a wide O. It tasted the way ozone smelled and when it pulsed against his tongue he moaned. It moved back and forth in his mouth, pressing deeper each completed motion. Before long it was knocking against the back of his throat and he had to swallow rapidly around it to avoid gagging.

He honestly kind of liked giving blow-jobs. It would give him a chance to calm down and recover, and if a tentacle blow-job got him out of this, he was game. 

It didn’t let him calm down. His extra-sensitive post-orgasm dick was smacked again and again: on the glans, along the shaft, on the head. The attention kept him hard. 

It seemed completely unfair that it was still hitting him—he’d stopped struggling!

Down below something pressed up against his asshole—probably a tentacle, if he had to guess. He kept tensing and relaxing in time with tortuous impacts on his cock, and it was just a matter of patience for the thing to shove its way past the ring of muscle and into him. It rocked inward, inch by inch, and all of Tristan’s efforts to move away from it just seemed to encourage the one that kept hitting his dickhead.

At the same time, something smaller and thinner, but still humming with power, coiled itself around his balls and up around his shaft. It teased at his slit, and then it shoved itself right down in there.

Having his urethra fucked by a live-wire was somehow more bearable than having his dick smacked around.

He reached his peak again in record time. His ex would have been absolutely shocked and probably said something snide about taking care of his health, the asshole.

Though maybe he had a point. Tristan’s heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest. He kept jerking against the electric pulses that were running through him, totally beyond his control. His toes curled, he gasped desperately around the tentacle fucking his mouth. He was going to come again.

Before he could, the feeling was yanked away from him—by the thin tendril yanking sharply on his balls. The pain was blinding, not only because he hadn’t been braced for it at all. He lost his rhythm on the blow-job. Tristan choked.

The tentacle in his throat swelled up so big the one wrapped around his neck had to back off to avoid strangling him. Warmth shot down into his stomach and he moaned again. 

It pulled out, huge and dripping with pearlescent fluid. The warmth kept growing until it was stifling. He was disoriented and hot. Holding his head up on his neck suddenly got a lot harder. He sobbed at the sensation.

The thing seemed to like that. More of them came up and rubbed at his cock. They slipped into his jeans, nudging them down under the swell of his ass and making his legs look strangely lumpy under the fabric. One rubbed against the sensitive skin on the back of his knees. Elsewhere, one threaded itself through his hair and pet his scalp in time with his moans. Most alarmingly, the big one shoving into his asshole was joined by a twin of equal size.

It seemed impossible, but it fit itself in there without stopping to ask his opinion on it.

They thrust together, so huge and coordinated he couldn’t tell them apart. Every move rubbed over his prostate and sent dizzying jolts of pure sensation coursing through him.

It was clearly learning his tells: every time he came close to coming they'd slow down, or pull on his balls, or squeeze his cock with a painful tightness that drew him back from orgasm.

He was so delirious with thwarted pleasure it took him an embarrassing amount of time to realize that they were continuing to grow. He was stretched full to bursting but they just kept going. Every time he rocked forward, it pulled on his balls past the point of pain. When he pushed back, he could _feel_ the two in his ass expanding, getting bigger. 

They fucked him so completely not even the tentacle strangling his balls and stopping up his cock could keep him from coming.

This time they didn't pause at all to give him a break. The three wrapped around his legs and waist had grown so big they hoisted him into the air with absolutely no effort. It gave him a good view of himself in the TV, which had been moved so far forward he was practically face-to-face with his dark reflection: bizarre, almost invisible cords disappearing into his jeans, translucent tentacles coiling over his his upper thighs and around his chest. It bent him forward, folded in half, so he could get a good look at the two stretching his ass apart.

More of them joined the ones in his jeans. The one at his neck drew his head up so he was again watching the darkened screen of the TV. Then, dramatically, all the new tentacles pulled outward and ripped his clothes apart.

He was, he realized faintly—before he fainted—impressed. Much better than pay-per-view.

When he woke up it was to the sight of the TV being held properly on the wall. Lifting his head, he could see that around him, glittering tentacles coiled all over his apartment.

He should probably call for help. Getting molested by tentacles was pretty bad—but, it _was_ holding his TV for him. And cleaning up a botched spell like this was bound to be expensive.


End file.
